


Aphelion

by SpaceWall



Series: Dawn [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Trying Lalwen’s Patience), Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Bisexual Female Character, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Feels, First Age, First Meetings, Fourth Age, Fëanor is Trying, Male-Female Friendship, Slow Romance, Step-siblings, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 12:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Lalwen, in the fourth age, tells a story she’s never told before.Lalwen, in the first age, falls in love.





	Aphelion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aetherio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherio/gifts).



> Aphelion is the point on a planet’s orbit where it’s furthest from the sun. 
> 
> Rembano is a Quenya name meaning ‘he who entraps/traps’
> 
> Canon-probable discussion of death/trauma. I’d say complaint but nobody in the Silm talks about their problems. 
> 
> A late happy midwinter gift to aetherio.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Fëanor slid off Lalwen’s couch and onto the floor in front of the fire. He wasn’t drunk enough to justify doing so, but Fëanor always pretended to be drunker than he was to get away with being an idiot. 

“Is it something I should actually answer?” Lalwen joined him on the floor so she wouldn’t feel like she was talking to an actual child. 

“Maybe. It’s a bit of an odd question. You spoke at Fingon and Maedhros’s wedding, right?”

“Right. I think you should know that already.”

Fëanor rolled his eyes dramatically. “That wasn’t the question, idiot. I know that. My question is, everyone who was there says you spoke meaningfully about the nature of love and relationships, so, who were you in love with?”

It hurt more than she would have anticipated, to have someone guess at it after all these years. “It isn’t a matter of who I ‘was’ in love with. And it isn’t any of your business.”

Fëanor smiled wickedly. “Sorry. Who are you in love with? And of course it’s my business, I’m your big brother. That means that if he hurts you, I get to help hide the body.”

“He never hurt me.”

“Well,” said Fëanor, “you accepted the male pronoun. That narrows it down some.”

Her brother was such a jackass. “Oh, good. You’ve narrowed it down to 48% of the population of Valinor.”

“So, he’s in Valinor, then.”

Fuck. “Yes, he is.”

“Then I think I’ve narrowed it down considerably further than that. Because you aren’t together here in Valinor, so you must have known each other before, either under the Trees, or in Beleriand. That means it has to have been someone who was born during the Years of the Trees, and is here now, and is male. Now the question of Beleriand or Tirion is a significant one, but if it was Tirion, I think someone in the family would know about it. So that means Beleriand. You never went to Doriath, so I think the odds are fairly good on it being a Noldo, in Beleriand, who is here now, and is male. That narrows the list down quite a lot.”

He was right. That was the problem. His guesses were right. It was still a few hundred people to choose from, but most of them would have been married, by now, or were uninterested in females, or both. She wouldn’t put it past Fëanor to track down every single candidate until he found the right one. 

“If I tell you, you need to promise me that you won’t speak a word of it to anyone.”

Fëanor’s face turned instantly from joking to serious. “You have my word, Lalwen. You know I can’t give you more than that.”

“I know, Fëanáro.” And she did. He never promised anything he couldn’t do, these days. “I need you to say the words.”

“Lalwen, I give you my word that I will not speak a word to anyone of what you confess to me tonight.”

“Except Nerdanel, as long as she promises the same.”

“Except Nerdanel, as long as she promises the same.”

“Unless it’s an emergency.”

“Unless it’s an emergency.”

“Or Lalwen says I can.”

“Or Lalwen says I can.”

Fëanor looked down at his hands. “Is that all, then?”

Lalwen considered. She had learned to be careful about promises. They all had. “I think so. Just don’t mention Eru’s name anywhere, yeah?”

“I don’t plan on it,” Fëanor assured her. His voice laughed, but his eyes were deadly serious.

“Good.” 

Fëanor slid closer to the fire, and stirred the coals with his boot knife. He could come very close to touching them without being burned. That was always how he’d been, ever since they were small. Touching things he shouldn’t, that no other person could have.

“So,” Fëanor began, “will you tell me about him, now?”

Lalwen seriously considered backing out there and then. 

Fëanor wiped the ashes off his knife, and looked carefully at her. “Lalwen. I’m sorry if I made you feel pressured. Nerdanel says I must push less.” 

The Fëanor she grew up with would never have said that. “No, that’s alright. It was a long time ago. Like Maedhros always says, we can’t forget. It isn’t right. If he can stand up and tell half of Tirion his darkest thoughts, I can tell one idiot brother about half a love affair I almost had in the first fucking age.” 

Fëanor reached over and ruffled her hair. His fingers were rough, from work and play, but his hands were gentle. “Take your time.” 

If she took her time, she would never start. “He was called Rog, of the Hammer of Wrath, and he was a Lord of Gondolin, after.” 

\--

Lalwen swung her way off her horse, and threw her hood back to show her face to the guards at Vinyamar’s gates.

“Princess,” one greeted, with a tilt of his head. The other bowed. 

“I assume Turgon told you to expect me?” It was still a challenge, using the new names, but Lalwen was getting used to it, even for herself. 

“He did, your highness. We are to show you to the palace at your earliest convenience.”

“Now would be fine,” Lalwen said, but before she could pass through the gates into the city, she heard shouting. 

“In Sindarin, by the King’s law!” Someone yelled, in a high voice. 

“This way, your highness.” Despite Turgon declaring himself a king, Lalwen’s status as High Princess, over all the Noldor, not just a subset, made her the person with the highest authority in Vinyamar.

“Wait,” she ordered, holding up a hand. 

“Fucking Fëanorian bastard,” the shouter continued, “Can’t even listen to a simple direction. I bet you wouldn’t know honour if I shoved it up your ass.”

Well, that was unacceptable. Fëanor might have been an unmitigated ass, and it was his fault they had been forced to walk the ice, but they knew honour, those who lived. Nobody who had seen Maedhros give the crown over to Nolofinwë’s line could have doubted it.

“What is happening here?” Lalwen demanded, and strode towards the noise. It took an effort to keep a hand from drifting nervously to the hilt of her sword. 

“Princess,” her guard said, but made no move to stop her as she marched into the guardhouse and saw his companion, baton raised, shouting at a silent and poorly-clad figure. 

“Stop that!” Lalwen ordered, letting her anger be known. “Stand down this instant, or by Eru’s name, I will have Turgon throw you out of this city before you have time to so much as make an appeal.”

“It is only orders,” the shouter complained, but did as ordered, lowering his weapon and taking a step back. 

If Turgon was keeping Noldor out of Vinyamar, no matter their providence, they were going to have a serious talk. The kind of talk that involved Fingolfin, and Fingon, and maybe even Maedhros if Lalwen was feeling particularly cruel. 

“What orders?”

Lalwen’s guard took the opportunity to speak then. “No one is to be admitted to Vinyamar without stating their providence, name, and reason for entering. My king fears spies.”

Turgon was a paranoid idiot and Lalwen was going to take him by the scruff of his neck and shake him like a dog. 

“And the problem is?”

“He won’t,” Shouter said. 

Lalwen turned her attention to the other elf them, and understood the problem immediately. The way his hair hung loose over his face had distracted her from the brand at the top of his neck, the sunkenness of his eyes and the harsh edges of his cheekbones. Lalwen knew by then the marks of thralldom, and this elf had all the signs. When she looked more closely, she discovered heavy scarring around his nose, and a tattoo in black ink on the back of his hand of a hammer. She wondered if that had been his choice or Morgoth’s. If he had been a thrall recently- and the uncanny thinness suggested he had- then he wouldn’t have known of the ban. He couldn’t have.

“Both of you, out.” She snapped to the guards. 

“Princess-”

“It is not beneath me to throw you out of Vinyamar on your ears, boy.”

“Your highness-”

Lalwen grabbed shouter by his collar, and threw him bodily from the building, slamming the door hard after the other guard had followed of his own volition. She turned to the ex-thrall, and found that he was cowering away from her. That should not have been so. Even in his gaunt state, Lalwen could see a wiry strength to him. And more, she could see the strength of the fëa that had carried him this far.

“Welcome to Vinyamar,” she said, in Quenya. It was a pleasure to speak the tongue she had been born to. “I’m terribly sorry about the idiots. Thingol of Doriath has demanded we all stop speaking Quenya, so Sindarin is the tongue of the crown now, whether we like it or not.”

“Oh,” the other elf said, “that explains a lot.”

“Yeah, it does. All they actually wanted was to know who you are, where you came from, and why you’re here. I think I can guess at the second two though.”

He reached up to trace a finger over the brand on his neck. “I guess so.” His voice was pained. “You don’t seem afraid of me.”

There was so much under that sentence to make Lalwen angry. “Should I be afraid of you, Master…”

“My mother called me Rembano. So according to her, maybe.”

“That’s terribly unfortunate. My mother seemed to think my life would be very funny, which really goes to show you that not all mothers are prophets.”

Rembano laughed. “I think my mother got it backwards. I was trapped, not trapping.”

It was a rather dark joke, but Lalwen couldn’t help but laugh, and got a delighted grin from Rembano in return. “So, Rembano of the Noldor, welcome to Vinyamar. Now all you need is to pick a name in Sindarin so we can actually say it without breaking the law. A direct-ish translation would be Raedor? Raedon?”

Rembano shook his head. “Oh, no. Definitely not.”

“Not all elves choose direct translations. I did, for a laugh, but some end up with totally new names, and some only translate part of their names, and I know that Nelyafinwë decided to smash his epessë and his mother name together to be ‘Maedhros’.”

Rembano nodded solemnly. “Could I pick something completely different, do you think?”

“I don’t see why not,” Lalwen told him. “Do you have something in mind?”

He looked down at his hands, tracing the tattoo with the tip of one finger. “A Sindarin elf shared my cell for a time. She died. Most of them did, eventually. When she was lucid, she gave me this. When she wasn’t, she called me ‘Rog.’”

If Lalwen remembered her Sindarin right, it was not a nice thing to call someone. “Do you know what that means?”

“I figured it out, yeah.”

It would be a fantastic ‘fuck you’ to those guards, and to the world at large. “Rog, then? Rog Damon.”

“Damon?”

“Hammer, I think.”

Rog looked at her, and met her eyes for the first time. “I like that.”

\--

Fëanor placed another log on the fire, and reached out one foot to rest it against hers. It was an oddly comforting gesture.

“So he was in love with someone else? Is that why you never spoke of it?” 

Lalwen shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they were lovers, maybe not. Whoever she was, they aren’t together now. Turgon would have told me.” 

“Turgon knows?” 

It wasn’t a crazy assumption to make. “No. Maybe if he was Maglor or Finrod, someone with a little more emotional intelligence, he would have figured it out. No, he just knows that we know each other, and don’t stay in touch.” 

Fëanor slid closer, and wrapped an arm around her. His calloused fingers caught against her skin. He was warm, and she rested her head against his chest. It reminded her of being with their father, in a way. He had inherited that same reassuring strength. 

“So, if that’s not it, then why?” 

“I don’t know if I can tell you why, but I can tell you when I saw him next.”

\-- 

Lalwen shoved her sword forward, two handed, up and through the orc’s armour. Tainted blood sprayed everywhere, and the orc staggered back over the edge of the cliff. Lalwen swore violently, and let go of the sword. 

“Fuck,” she said, and watched the sword Curufin had made her fall into the river with the body of the orc.

There was no time to waste, and so she drew her dagger and made short work of the remaining two orcs, taking it to their necks, and kicking the bodies over the edge. 

“Sorry, Ulmo,” she told the river, and then, considering the matter, turned to discover that they’d made a fine job of butchering her horse before she had arrived. 

“Fuck,” Lalwen said again, and, checking the sun’s position for the time, started the long walk to the closest Noldorin city. Vinyamar. 

Turgon welcomed her, despite the short notice, and set her up with a room for the night. They two and Idril ate dinner together, a quiet, family affair, before Idril excused herself to go out with a new friend, Duilin.

“Boys, Turgon,” Lalwen said, when her great-niece was gone. “How the time flies. Watch your back, or you’ll be joining Angrod in having grand-babies before you know it.”

Orodreth, Angrod’s son, had recently gifted the world with a lovely daughter. 

Turgon shuddered involuntarily. “She’s much too young.”

“She’s less than a century younger than Orodreth. The time will be upon you before you know it.”

Turgon grabbed her by the shoulder. “Quick, Auntie Lalwen, model good, unwedded behavior for my impressionable daughter.”

Lalwen raised an eyebrow at him. “Good behavior? You must have mistaken me with Findis.”

They both cracked up, laughing in an unconstrained way that Lalwen rarely heard from Turgon, since Elenwë had died. He was so broken, and it broke something in her, too, seeing it so. It was, as expected, Turgon who stopped laughing first. 

“Seriously, though. I think Idril worries that I see more value in marriage than I do in her as my daughter. If you could, I don’t know, talk to her? I would appreciate that.”

Fëanor had been the same. His constant talk of marriage had had a profound impact on his children. Maedhros still balked when Lalwen mentioned the idea of marrying someone, and it had been almost a century since he’d seen his father. 

“Why me and not Aredhel?” Lalwen asked him. 

Turgon shrugged. “Aredhel isn’t here right now. Also, last month she told Idril to ‘get some’, so I’m positive she’s not a good influence.”

“Where is she?” 

Turgon’s face shut down completely. “She’s off doing a favour for me. And then maybe visiting Himlad, if she has the time.” 

And there was that unattractive secretive quality that made her want to strangle Turgon. 

“Do you not trust me, Turukáno?” 

“I trust you,” Turgon promised, standing. “You said you needed a new sword? I know a blacksmith who’ll be working this late. You should go put in an order. According to Aredhel, he’s the best in Vinyamar.” 

He scribbled an address down for her, 16, Aulë’s Way, near Main Street, and fled without saying anything else.

“Paranoid idiot,” Lalwen said, to herself, and went to her room to change.

She rid herself of the dress and the coronet she’d pilfered from the back of Aredhel’s closet for Turgon’s benefit, and changed into a comfortable tunic and pair of tights. As the Noldorin custom dictated, she attached a golden clasp to her her ear and jewelled choker around her neck. It would have been inappropriate in the extreme to go undressed before someone from whom she was going to ask a favour. Lalwen tucked a purse into her tunic, and went on her way.

Aulë’s Way was where all the smiths in Vinyamar had built their shops, and the name hadn’t changed since the ban. This time of night, most of the fires were out, but number sixteen was lit and the ringing of a hammer could still be heard. Lalwen let herself in, and then stopped to stare in surprise at the red-headed smith before her. 

“Rog?” 

He turned around, hammer hanging loosely in his hand. The uncanny thinness was gone, replaced by muscle and a filled out face. The brand on his neck had been tattooed over with an interesting abstract design. He’d also pierced his nose with what Lalwen thought was gold or gold-plating. Her first thought, stupidly, was that she’d have liked to touch the tattoo. 

“It’s you,” he said, which was about the point at which Lalwen realized she’d never actually told Rog her name. “The laughing woman. You threw that guard out.”

He’d finally learned Sindarin, apparently. “Lalwen. My name is Lalwen.” 

“Like the princess.”

Lalwen was acutely aware of the way her face flushed, warmth reaching high into her cheeks. She considered whether it would be possible to ask Aredhel to bring a sword back for her from Himlad, or whether she should just flee all the way there by herself. Curufin could probably be bribed or threatened into replacing the sword he’d made her. 

“Yeah.”

Rog made a funny noise. “Oh. I’m an idiot. You threw those guards out because you’re the High Princess. You command them. Eru. You’re Írimë Lalwen. Finwiel. Eru.”

“I’m almost positive I’m not Eru.”

“I mean-”

“I know. I know. I just thought it was funny.” 

Rog put his hammer down on the table, and pulled off his leather gloves. His tattoo was still visible, though the years had faded it some. 

“So, uhh, why are you here?” 

Lalwen kept her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. 

“I actually need a sword. I lost mine.” 

“I can do that,” Rog said, very quickly. “Do you have, um, a preference? Two handed? Hand-and-a-half?” 

“I did up a sketch of the last one, actually. Curufin made it.” 

“Curufin. Yes. Fëanor’s son.” 

“My nephew.” 

“Your nephew. Eru.”

“He isn’t-”

“No, no, I know. I got the joke the first time” Rog sat back on his work bench, pushing his hammer out of the way. “This is just really weird for me. The badass elleth who saved my life turned out to be a princess in disguise.”

Lalwen wondered whether her face could get any redder. “Did I? Save your life?” 

She thought that Rog might be flushing too. Her eyes were boring a hole in the earth at his feet, so she couldn’t tell. “Yeah. I think so. I wasn’t doing so well, when I first made it to Vinyamar. Talking to that guard, not being heard, made me want to dissolve into the dirt and die. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t think I would have made it into Vinyamar. Or bothered to find my way to another city of the Noldor. That might have been it, for me. But then you were there. And now here I am.” 

Lalwen finally managed to look him in the eyes. They were lovely eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s good. Is this your forge?”

Rog nodded. “Yeah. I actually trained in Aulë’s forges, originally, so it wasn’t that hard to get back into the trade. I worked in the city forges for a while, did some commissions, saved up, and bought this place.”

“Congratulations,” Lalwen said, quite sincerely. “Turgon told me Aredhel told him that you’re the best.” 

Rog smiled down at his hands. “So she was a princess too.” He laughed, softly. 

Lalwen weighed her options, and made a choice. “I don’t actually need the sword any time soon. Do you want to go out? Get a drink?”

Rog met her eyes, and grinned. “I’d like that.” 

\- -

Fëanor poured Lalwen another drink, shaking the last drops of wine out of the bottle. Then he took his own glass in hand, and looked critically at it. 

“Red-haired smith, trained in Aulë’s forges? He wouldn’t happen to be a kinsman of Mahtan’s, would he?” 

Lalwen shrugged. “He’s exactly your type. I know. And I think him and Nerdanel are second cousins once removed or something, but I haven’t asked her about it.” 

Fëanor laughed gaily. “You can’t say I have a type. I just have Nerdanel. But you- you have a type!”

“What’s my type?”

“People with hidden strength,” Fëanor informed her. “Like that nís you dated when you were forty and it turned out she was a wrestler favoured by Tulkas.” 

“Would we say that was hidden?”

It had, actually, been quite well known.

Another bout of laughter burst from his lips. “She was a full head shorter than you. You could never have picked her out of a lineup as the one who would have beaten half the boys in Valinor bare-handed.” 

Fucking Fëanor and his fucking brain. “Okay. Fine. Possibly two of my lovers shared one trait, but-”

“And then there was that Vanya, you know, the one with the brother, and she survived falling off that cliff while you were hiking-”

“Luck,” Lalwen interrupted.

“-And then wrote that book about it.” 

There were at least three more who Fëanor didn’t even know about, from the Ice and Beleriand. “Fine. So maybe Rog is exactly my type. But there was something different there. Rog looked at the world just a little left of how everyone else did, and he saw me. Really saw me. Those three days in Vinyamar were wonderful. Some of the best of my life. I told him secrets I never told anyone in my life, and he listened.” 

Fëanor smiled, and drank. “What kind of secrets?” 

Well, he was already sworn to secrecy anyways, and Lalwen was definitely not sober enough to stonewall him completely. “I told him about how, when I was younger, I wanted to be like you. I wanted to go away, wanted to study, but Atar wouldn’t let me.”

“I didn’t know that,” Fëanor said to his hands. He seemed upset. 

“No one did. That’s why it was a secret. It wasn’t to be; I needed to stay. With Findis in Ingwë’s court and Arfin in Olwë’s, and you and Fingolfin at each other’s throats…” 

Fëanor turned distinctly grey. “I’m sorry. If I’d known-”

“You wouldn’t have done shit if you’d known.” Lalwen pointed out. “You were too busy being at Fingolfin’s throat.” 

“I would if it was now,” Fëanor told her. He set his glass down, and took her hands in his. “If you still want that, I’ll teach you. Anything you’d like. Mathematics, linguistics, engineering, anything.” 

It was a tempting offer. “Maybe. Someday. I don’t even know if that’s the person I want to be any more.”

“Well, I’m here if, and when, you need me. I was too… wrong to fix it then. But anything I can do in the here and now, I will.” 

Lalwen pulled away so he wouldn’t see that she was tearing up. “Do you want to hear the end of the story, or don’t you?”

Fëanor brightened considerably. “That wasn’t the end of it?” 

“It wasn’t. I went back to Vinyamar one last time, before Turgon up and vanished the whole city. I went to talk to Rog, because I needed his advice.”

\--

Lalwen let herself into the forge, and stood in the doorway for a long moment watching him work. His hair was braided down his back, and she could see his muscles working under his shirt. It was not an unimpressive view. Once the sword was done, she finally spoke.

“Hello, Rog.” 

He pulled off his leather apron and gloves, and gave her a smile. “Lalwen. Please tell me you didn’t lose your sword again. I liked that one.”

Lalwen patted the hilt. “I still have it. Curufin was very miffed about my sharing the design with a competitor, but he called you a competitor, which I think was a compliment?” 

Rog laughed. “I’ll take it as a compliment. Lord Curufin is very talented. But I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about a sword you haven’t lost.” 

“No,” Lalwen admitted, “I actually came because I need your advice. But, uh, if it’s too much, just tell me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rog agreed, with a confused expression. “What is it you need advice about?”

“It’s about one of my nephews. Maedhros.”

Understanding flashed across his face. “I know of him. Is that why you need my advice? It’s about- you know- that time?” 

“It is. If you don’t want to talk about it…” Lalwen waved her hands around vaguely. 

Rog shook his head. “No, we can talk about it. I’ve actually been working as a liaison between the Noldorin government and ex-thralls who are trying to settle. I talk to them about what happened to me, and I try and get them to talk about their experiences. The idea is to make them more comfortable with themselves, and allow them to find confidence and build support structures with each other.”

“That’s amazing, Rog!”

He blushed. “Thank you. So, uh, your question?” 

Right. “So I was up in Himring, a few weeks ago. I make the rounds, right? Visit the nieces and nephews. Usually I don’t go to Himring because Fingon makes that run, but I was in the area, and so I stopped in. He was having a really bad week. He kept dreaming that he was back there, and it got so bad that he was seeing it while waking, and I tried to do something, but I just felt so helpless, Rog. Nothing I did seemed to help. If anything, I think I made it worse by trying to calm him down.” 

“What happened?” 

“In the end, I had Maglor come in and he helped. But it was awful. I held Maedhros as a baby, and he didn’t even know my face. I just- seeing someone you love like that- I kept thinking about how upset Fëanor would be, if he were here, and it was a stupid think to be thinking about, and I-” She choked on the words

Rog crossed the room, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Can I hug you?”

Lalwen nodded, and Rog wrapped strong arms around her and pulled her close. “Thank you.”

“Sometimes bad days just happen, Lalwen. It’s not your fault. I have them too. Sometimes it’s just a little, uncontrollable thing. Your porridge gets too cold, or the weather is too hot, or you don’t remember to drink enough water. It’s different for different people. Next time you see Maedhros, you should ask him what helps him, specifically. Part of the reason Maglor was more equipped to help than you are is that he’s probably seen Maedhros have a bad day before. You haven’t.” 

Lalwen dried her eyes on his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

Rog kissed the top of her head. “I’ve got some breathing exercises that help keep me grounded. I can show them to you, if you want.”

“That would be wonderful, Rog. Thank you.”

They stayed like that for a while, and Lalwen decided that she never wanted to stop touching him. He was warm, and lovely. There was just something about his voice, and his eyes, and his laugh. For almost the first time since she’d arrived in Beleriand, Lalwen wished her mother was there. She would have known what to do, what to say.

“Can I ask you something else?”

Rog hummed, and Lalwen could feel the words vibrate deep in his chest. “You can.” 

How to phrase it? “How do you find the strength? To keep going, after everything?” 

He squeezed her tight. “I don’t know. It just seems like the thing to do. I like being here, most of the time. What about you? You’re out there fighting, every day. How do you find the strength? I don’t think I could go out there, and face them.” 

“I think about my father, and my brother, and my nephews. And I think about everyone else’s fathers, and brothers, and nephews. And I know that if I can save one person, just one, it’ll have been worth it. And don’t doubt yourself, Rog. I know that if it ever came down to it, you would be the strongest of all of us.” 

“How can I be?” He asked her. “You’re here.” 

\--

“And I just had this flash of premonition, you know? I just knew that he was going to be the strongest of us, and I wasn’t going to be there. I’m not Nerdanel or anything, but I’ve had my moments.”

“So?” Fëanor asked. “Was that it?”

Lalwen felt herself blush. “Well, no. I knew it might be our last chance, so I took him to bed. Also the next night. And the night after that. And then I left Vinyamar, and the entire city disappeared a few months later. I did tell Maedhros about the breathing exercises. And then I died, and I haven’t seen Rog since.” 

Fëanor threw a log over his shoulder into the fire so hard it sounded like an explosion. Lalwen shrieked. 

“What the fuck, Lalwen? You fall in love with a kind, respectful, intelligent person who is alive, here and now, and you just never reach out to him? Ever? You threw that all away?”

“Fëanor.”

Fëanor leapt to his feet, unsteady. “No. Shut up. What possible good reason could you have for that?”

Lalwen stood too, and swayed as the blood rushed in her head. “It’s not just on me, is it? He knows Turgon! If he wanted to find me, all he had to do was ask.”

“Because you’re hiding!” Fëanor snapped. “If I’d come back and they’d told me that Nerdanel didn’t see anyone, and she never came to see me, do you think I would have thought she wanted to see me?”

“No?”

“No! Of course not. You’re hiding out here from everything. If you think that he has to come get you, pass some test to earn your affection, then you don’t deserve his.”

Lalwen staggered back onto the couch. Fëanor, seemingly realizing what he’d said, sat down hard on the ground. After a moment, he added, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” Lalwen corrected, “you’re right. I don’t deserve his affection. I never did. That’s why I haven’t gone to see him, now that I could again.”

“Lalwen-”

She cut him off. “Do you know how I died, Fëanor?”

“Nobody knows that.”

And she’d worked so hard to keep it that way. The other secrets she’d told that night, Rog knew. Other people, with a little more information, might have figured them out. This was hers, and hers alone. But, well, Fëanor would keep his word. Even if he hated it, he would keep his word.

“I died in Angband, Fëanáro. I died in the same fucking hole that Rog pulled himself out of, starving and covered in shit, and I just laid down and died like a fucking coward. If I see him again, he’ll ask, and I’ll tell him, and he’ll hate me.”

“Írimë.” Fëanor’s arm’s were around her in a second, cradling her to his chest. “If he hates you for that I will end him. I will end his life, and I will end his chances of ever working with any smith in Valinor ever again, and I will-”

Lalwen let herself muffle a small laugh against his collar. “I get the picture, thanks.” 

“You should talk to someone about it. Maedhros runs a group-”

“Maedhros’s group is people who were brave. Maedhros survived! He’s probably one of the bravest people I know. Finrod died, but he went down fighting tooth and claw- pun not intended.” 

Fëanor rubbed her back soothingly. “What about Lómion and Celebrimbor?” 

“Celebrimbor is a hero for what he did, for not telling Sauron of elven rings, no matter how much he’d like to believe it otherwise.”

“And did you talk? When they had you, did you talk?”

Lalwen couldn’t hide her laugh. “Did I talk? They didn’t even know who I was! I was never tortured; they didn’t try.”

Fëanor pulled away to hold her hands in his. “Did they ask who you were, when they caught you?”

“Fëanor-”

“Did they ask you? Yes or no.” 

Fucking asshole. “Yes, they asked me.”

“And what did you say it was?” She could hear the tinge of victory in his voice. 

“Ríndes.” 

“So what you’re telling me is that they questioned you, and you didn’t say a word.” 

Lalwen pushed him away. “It isn’t the same. Stop pretending.”

Fëanor stood, still unsteady. “I’m not. Maybe you should take a little of your own advice. In the meantime, I’m going to get some sleep. You should do the same.” 

He left, a storm contained in the form of an elf. The Spirit of Fire himself. 

“Fuck you, Finwion,” Lalwen said, fully aware that he could still hear her. 

“I love you!” Fëanor called from upstairs, “even if you are an idiot.”

\--

Fëanor was awake, gone, and had left breakfast on the table. Lalwen decided that whatever this meant, it was very bad. She ate the breakfast, and it took her another hour to find the note he’d left in the washroom.  
_  
Dear Lalwen,_

_Sorry for running out on you, but there’s something terribly important I have to do. I’ll keep my word, and not breathe a word of this to anyone. I promise. You can have that in writing._

_Love,_

_Curufinwë Fëanáro_  
  
\--

Life returned to normal. Lalwen rarely had any visitors, and Fëanor’s short stay was likely the only one she would have that year, although Fingolfin had been agitating for her to go see Findis. Maybe. Maybe one day. Findis was a good person, under it all, and it had been much too long since they’d seen each other.

Normal ended three weeks later, when Lalwen returned home from collecting firewood to discover an all-too-familiar figure sitting on her front step. He was just under the ledge, where the falling snow wouldn’t land on him. His horse had sought shelter in the small stable Lalwen had built for visitors a few years ago.

“What the hell did Fëanor say?” Lalwen demanded, before Rog could open his mouth. 

“It was more a matter of him not saying things, actually? He kind of just turned up at my forge and refused to leave and he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Fuck,” Lalwen said, succinctly.

Rog nodded. “Eventually I asked Turgon to ask him to leave, and he told Turgon no, and so I asked Nerdanel, and she told me no, and then eventually Turgon worked out that I should probably come see you.”

Lalwen sighed deeply, and dumped her firewood in the shed to dry. “Do you have any siblings, Rog?”

“No, I don’t.” 

It was funny, that she’d never asked. They’d shared so many more intimate things, but never something so simple. “Well, take a bit of friendly advice from me. Don’t.”

“I’ll put a request in to my parents.”

Lalwen couldn’t help but grin at his dry humour. “How are your parents?”

Rog shrugged. “They’re okay. We talk, sometimes. I think having Nerdanel’s sons in the family, even distantly, makes me seem normal and well put together.”

“Hey watch it, those are my nephews you’re talking about there.”

Rog slid over, and Lalwen took a seat beside him on the porch. “What about your parents? Aside from the whole ‘brothers’ thing, how are they?”

As if the entire population of Valinor didn’t know how Lalwen’s parents were. “They’re alright. Amya doesn’t really see anyone, and I don’t really see anyone, so we don’t talk much. But she’s, uh, she’s actually recently started dating Míriel, if you can believe it. The boys are all still baffled by the whole thing, but I think it’s nice, and everyone seems pretty happy with how things are.”

Rog rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “Well, fuck. I don’t think that was the kind of news I expected.”

“Me neither,” Lalwen admitted, “but it seems stupid to waste this kind of happiness, if you have the chance.”

“That makes sense.”

They were each silent for a long time, while Lalwen contemplated the happiness she’d thrown away, and they both kept their thoughts to themselves. Then Lalwen stood. 

“Well, I can get Fëanor to leave you alone, certainly. I can’t promise to do it without violence, but I can do it. Do you want something to eat, for the road back?”

Rog stayed where he was. “No, uh, I can hunt on my return trip. Thank you. I didn’t mean to impose.”

Fuck Lalwen and her stupid, idiot, cowardly brain. “I’m sorry he was bothering you like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rog said, with a shrug. “I just wish I knew what it was he wasn’t telling me. I don’t actually mind him hanging around- he’s got a remarkable mind, that one- but I do sort-of mind him lying to me, you know?”

“I know. I promise his intentions were good, if that makes things better? He just doesn’t really know what he’s talking about.”

There was another, longer, and more painful silence. Rog moved to get back on his horse, snow crunch under his feet, and then stopped, and looked back at her. “What happened between us- even if it wasn’t forever, it was one of the most important relationships of my life, and I miss you. A lot. If you’re ever in Tirion…”

“I’ll come say hi. And, uh, sorry again, about Fëanor. I didn’t think he’d bother you so much.”

Rog crooked his head, curly hair shifting with the motion. “You didn’t think he’d bother me so much? So, you knew that he knew something that would make him want to bother me at least a little?”

Stupid Lalwen. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I told him about our… relationship.”

“Does Fëanor bother everyone you ever slept with, or is it just me?”

“Just you.”

Rog looked down at his hands. “I think I was in love with you, for a long time. I’m sorry if I was too involved. I should have moved on when you did.” He turned away, and got on the horse.

And Lalwen couldn’t let him leave thinking that his affection was ever unwanted. Terrifying, yes. Overwhelming, a little. But never unwanted. “Wait!”

“What?”

“I love you too.” Shit. “I love you so much, Rog, but you don’t deserve to be saddled with someone like me, you don’t need that burden. You should find someone free, and happy, and good. Someone who isn’t a fucking failure.”

“I already did,” Rog said, and then he was sliding off the horse, and running- running towards her, and his hands came up and grasped her by her coat, and Lalwen found herself gasping into a kiss. 

“Rog,” she whispered, against his lips. “Rog. Rog.”

“Lalwen,” he returned, “my beautiful, laughing maiden.” 

“Not much of a maiden when you were done with me. Not much of a maiden before, come to that.” 

Rog laughed. “A maiden in this body?” 

Him and his humour. “Yes. Fine. Technically.” 

“Well that’s lucky. So am I.” His hands went up the back of her shirt.

“Do you think we can remedy that fact before you go back to Tirion and I murder my brother?” 

He pulled back, and grinned to show all his teeth. “Oh yes. I think we have the time.” 

They had all the time in the world. But he had to make his decision with all the information. “There’s something you need to know, first.” 

He pulled his hands off of her. “Sorry. Anything you’d like.” 

“They caught me, Rog. They caught me, and I wasn’t strong enough, and I died, and I’m sorry.” 

His face fell. “I always hoped it wasn’t that. When I realized you were dead, I hoped you’d, I don’t know, fallen off a horse. Slipped in the bath. Died in an embarrassing but ultimately harmless way.”

Even now, he could make her smile. “No. It wasn’t that.”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have wanted that for you. You deserved better.” 

“I didn’t, Rog. I was weak, and stupid, and I thought I was strong, but I never was.” He was so kind. 

“Plenty of strong people died in those walls. It was only the lucky ones who didn’t.” 

He was sincere, too. “Rog, how can you ever love someone like that?”

“Your premise is wrong. I don’t love someone who is weak and stupid. I love someone who fought for me before she even knew me, who is clever, quick witted and was always underutilized as a soldier. You should have been a queen.”

“What a declaration,” she murmured. “With beautiful words like that, you’ll give Maedhros a run for his money. But the queen bit is all wrong. I’m very glad to have predeceased Fingolfin.” 

Rog offered her his hand. Lalwen took it, and he squeezed her fingers tight. “You were a queen to me, even when I didn’t know you were High Princess.” 

She offered up her other hand, so he could ground her by holding it too. “I’m glad Turgon gave you a lordship. By all accounts, you deserved it.” 

“It didn’t keep me from dying in a bloody and unpleasant way.”

She hadn’t even thought about that. Selfish. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” 

“It was awful,” he agreed, “but I’m alright, and I have friends to support me. The Lords do right by each other, with the exception for poor Egalmoth, who never really got over dying.” 

“But the inclusion of Lómion?” 

Rog grinned. “I like Lómion. He’s only four-fifths the smith Fëanor is, but he’s certainly better company.” 

“Maybe next time I’ll tell him my secret love story instead.” 

“If you’d like,” Rog said, “it doesn’t have to be a secret at all.” 

“I do like. Very much.” 

Rog lifted one hand to his lips, and kissed it. Then, all sly, he added, “I can’t wait to see the look on Turgon’s face.”

Lalwen, laughing, wrapped one languid arm around his neck. Rog lifted her off her feet, and carried her inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Ríndes is a super generic name for a wise woman. 
> 
> Eeeeeee I love these nerds.


End file.
